Prenup
by VanessaGalore
Summary: Title change-was formerly "A Cure for the Jitters" which I didn't like! After everything they'd been through, after all the fighting and tension...she had to admit that he still was definitely the guy who made her skirt fly up. L/V fluff.


**CHARACTERS:** Logan/Veronica, a little Keith and Dick.

** SUMMARY:** Just a little fluffy story. Shockingly angst-free, and you barely even need to know canon, and you don't have to pay much attention! Gosh, it's barely recognizable as a fic by me.

**RATING:** NC-17.

**SPOILERS:** No spoilers.**  
**

**DISCLAIMER:** I don't own any rights to Veronica Mars. This story is written as a tribute only.

* * *

"Let's blow it off. C'mon, Veronica."

"We can't. Are you out of your mind?"

Another paparazzi helicopter buzzed overhead. The location of the remote mansion, high up in the hills of Northern California, had been leaked just hours before. Veronica pictured swarms of fatigue-wearing, face-blackened tabloid reporters scuttling up the densely wooded hillside on their bellies.

_'I got a twenty on their location, over. I've got the bride in my sights._

_'Is it Vera Wang or Dior?'_

_~radio crackles~_

_'I see an off-the-shoulder bodice with lace, sir, beaded embroidery on a ballerina skirt … ivory, repeat, ivory. I make it to be … (gasp) … holy shit, they went with Monique Lhuillier!'_

_~cameras with zoom lenses click furiously~_

Veronica rolled her eyes at her lurid imaginings, which after all weren't that far from the truth. She breathed in suddenly and pointed toward a glint of light through the trees, several hundred yards away. "Logan, ten o'clock."

Logan nodded that he too had seen the flash of a camera lens catching sunlight. Resplendent in a custom-fitted designer tuxedo, spoiled only by his half-assed attempt at tying his bowtie, he wiggled his eyebrows at her again. "This way," he said, grabbing her arm and pulling her toward a trail that led into the woods. "If we hurry …."

"Where are you taking me? And how do you think you're going to pull this off? T-minus forty, you know." Veronica held up her dainty gold watch for Logan to see. "Madame Antoinette isn't going to be pleased."

Logan shuddered ostentatiously, thinking about the wedding planner, who had plotted this event like a military operation, albeit a military operation with about a hundred thousand dollars worth of flowers. "She scares me, to tell you the truth."

"What a mistake," Veronica commented. "What's wrong with eloping anyways?"

"Too late now," Logan mused.

When news of the proposal had leaked, it had been the top story on Access Hollywood. Veronica had thought the elaborate security precautions had been a tactical error, since they just seemed to ramp up the curiosity even more. As the wedding date approached, speculation about the Echolls wedding was the top story of every gossip rag.

In truth, Veronica had found it all very tiresome. She had selected a dress at the first store she went to — Logan had pushed her to visit several designers before choosing, but she just couldn't be bothered. Even so, the dress she'd picked was lovely, fitted to her slim body as if designed especially for her.

Logan had to admit that Veronica's appearance had a definite impact on the tightness of the crotch of his pants. He adjusted himself again and paused as the trail forked, then decisively tugged Veronica to the left.

She cursed her high-heels as she stumbled a little on a rock.

"You okay?" he asked solicitously.

"Yeah, yeah," she muttered. "I'm not exactly dressed for a quickie in the woods, you know. And … what about the paparazzi?"

"Oh, I know, I know. Don't worry, I got somewhere in mind. And forget about the paps."

And then — before she could breathe in to retort, as was her wont — he pulled her in to kiss her, his tongue possessing her and claiming her. She breathed out, "What paparazzi?"

"That's my girl," he whispered. Logan passed his hand over her hair, artfully done up in a loose French braid, with just a few strands casually escaping as if by accident to frame her face. But of course Veronica had suffered through two hours with a stylist to achieve this seemingly carefree artifice. "I'm tempted to mess up your hair," he teased. "You know …" Logan tilted his head to look at her, pretending to be concerned. "I actually prefer that just-fucked look."

"Don't you dare!" she hissed. "I'm not doing this hair again."

He smiled at her, pretending to leer, and her heart thudded. He still had the capacity to make her swoon. After everything they'd been through, after all the fighting and tension … she had to admit that he was still definitely the guy who made her skirt fly up.

And right this moment, she was quite glad that she'd foregone wearing any panties.

That morning, Veronica had dressed carefully, with a garter belt and matching bra and panties that coordinated perfectly with her dress. At the last moment, she'd changed her mind and removed the panties, telling herself that a little secret lasciviousness might just be the key to getting through this ritual unscathed.

Blithely, she pronounced, "Oh dear." She snuck a sideways glance, hoping for a reaction.

Logan, completely focused on his objective — getting Veronica somewhere alone — almost missed it. Then he realized she'd spoken. "What? What'd you say?"

"It's possible that I forgot to wear any underwear today." Veronica gave him a mock rueful smile. "I don't know how I did that. God, I'm such a blonde."

"What are you trying to do to me?" he groaned. He pulled her along even faster, to her great amusement.

Up ahead, a small building gradually revealed itself through the trees. Logan guided Veronica down the path and opened the door of the cottage.

"Now, this seems awfully convenient," Veronica commented sarcastically. "Did you plan this?"

"Says the girl who 'forgot' to wear underwear," Logan retorted.

"You're complaining about that?"

"Never."

Veronica showed him the time again. "Thirty-five minutes until you have to take your place on the altar. Remember what Madame Antoinette said at the rehearsal?"

Logan had clowned ceaselessly at the rehearsal dinner. Veronica thought she hadn't seen him act quite that silly since the "Total Eclipse of the Heart" Dance, when he'd channelled Tom Cruise. Of course, at the eighties dance, there'd been a lot of alcohol involved, and even more grief. This lunacy was merely Logan making fun of the ritual and blowing off steam from all the unnecessary tension generated by the wedding planner's ridiculously nitpicking. The third time that Madame Antoinette went over the schedule of the reception, with all the events of the evening planned to the minute (first dance at 8:34, blessing at 8:37, best man's toast at 8:39, etc.), Logan had muttered, "Let 'em eat cake, ferchissakes. Off with her head!"

Veronica's dad had muffled an appreciative laugh, but Madame Antionette had marched over and placed her hand quite near to Logan's crotch and had whispered, "Eef you fuck up my wedding, I will cut zee balls off. _Oui_? _Entendez-vous, monsieur_?"

"Ahh, _oui_, madame," Logan had replied. "Holster that clipboard, ma'am. I'll behave, promise." He had tried to look serious, with a modicum of success.

Dick had added a sympathetic, "Dude!" in solidarity.

So Logan's manparts were quite aware of the approaching appointment with destiny, in front of witnesses, all of whom had been thoroughly instructed that they damn well better forever hold their peace when asked. It wasn't quite an altar, since the bride had eschewed a church wedding. Perhaps a stage, as befitted a spectacle like this wedding extravaganza, since it seemed like the whole world wanted to ogle the happy couple as they tied the knot.

Logan looked around the cottage. As Veronica had suspected, he'd planned this. When Logan had asked for a little "private time" right before the ceremony, the sympathetic manager of the mansion, fed up to the gills with Madame Antoinette's high-handed behavior, had suggested a rendezvous in one of the smaller cottages on the grounds. A bouquet of flowers on the table, sparkling water in a bucket of ice with two glasses — if they actually took the time to have a drink — and most importantly, a bed, luxuriously fitted with silken sheets and a sprinkling of rose petals.

Veronica turned her back to Logan and said, "Unzip, please."

"Ooh, I love when you order me around, sugarpuss." He pulled the tab on her zipper, desperately wanting to drag this out as long as possible (_quelle aventure_! Veronica's lovely bare back revealing itself bit by bit). But he was sadly aware of the looming deadline and yanked it down, until the creamy whiteness of Veronica's ass, framed by the lace of her garter belt, was exposed beneath his hand.

"Help me," she whispered, as she awkwardly wriggled out of the tight dress. Logan helped ease it down and steadied her as she stepped out of it. "Don't wrinkle it," she said anxiously as he put the dress on the chair next to the bed. She laid down on the bed, her thighs just barely open to expose the light thatch of hair between her legs. He watched as she fumbled with the closure on a strapless bra, tighly encasing her breasts, and thought he would explode if he wasn't inside her in … one … minute.

Triumphantly she removed the bra. Almost breathless at the sight of her, with her nipples just slightly reddened in excitement and the rise and fall of her chest perceptibly demonstrating her arousal, Logan pulled his tie off and unbuttoned two buttons from his shirt before pulling it over his head and throwing it to the side. As he toed off his shoes, the pants were unzipped and flung down to the floor. "Thirty minutes?" he asked.

She nodded.

The boxers and socks were next, flying off his body and landing haphazardly around the room so quickly that she had to giggle. He hoisted himself onto the bed, ensconcing himself between her legs. "I … love … your garter belt," he panted. "Thank you for blowing off your panties … damn, I love you, Veronica."

"Shut up and kiss me," she demanded.

His lips made a detour to her nipple before pressing to her neck, that hollow that he loved between her clavicle bones — it was called the jugular notch, he knew, from looking it up on the web. It seemed a spot of great importance, where she was completely vulnerable in that fragile junction of bone, so near to the vital jugular, yet she opened it to him without restraint, as she exposed her entire body and soul to him. He kissed her gently and felt the thud, thud, of her heart pumping blood through her body, and the soft exhalations of her pants were a rhythmic music in his ears, sensual and promising.

Logan regretfully left the hollow and kissed up her chin to her waiting, parted lips. Soft and fleshy, so familiar, yet he never tired of them … sucking on them, licking them, tasting her, even nipping her. He contented himself with slipping his tongue into her awaiting mouth – it was almost as if she couldn't bear not to have him inside her, in some way.

She moaned as his tongue probed and explored, and she tried to push away the nagging conviction that this was completely insane. Veronica pictured a paparazzi, relentlessly following the old carriage trails that covered the estate until he found the cottage where they were ensconced. A few quick snaps with a telephoto lens — she should know, after all, just how easy it was to expose the foolish indiscretions of the famous. And yet, it was insanely hot to think that _at any moment_ someone could see, someone could …. She shuddered, and Logan groaned his approval, and suddenly she didn't care at all.

Yeah, this was insane. There was nothing rational in the way that his hand brushed against her breast, the slighly-roughened callouses from all that surfing titillating the pebbled surface, the fingers fumbling then grasping and squeezing and … ohhh … it felt so nice, _right there, right there, don't stop._ Her legs didn't hesitate to fall open and give his hand room to explore, that finger, sliding, seeking, _so nice, so good. Don't stop._

Her eyes closed. He'd found her clit again, as he had so many times before. Circling, a little pressure, and then … insistence.

_Come on, Veronica, come on, Veronica. I got you, come on, Veronica._

She fumbled for the cock pressing against her leg; she never quite got over her wonder at this appendage that men had, mindless and mindful, a bit of flesh that gave pleasure and sought it so relentlessly. Stroking the smooth skin, feeling his excitement, a little pride that it was _her_ that made him like this — and such a crazily erotic thing it was, so wonderfully dirty. She caressed the head, moving up and down the shaft in the way she knew he loved, and felt his penis jumping … jumping out of its skin, she thought, desperate for more, more, more.

Her hand was on his cock, and he thought he'd go wild. Logan wanted nothing more than to blow off the goddamn ceremony, take Veronica every way he ever imagined, from behind, her on top, her on top backwards, leaning her up against the wall … _fuck, even missionary, god, let's make up a new way_. His fingers, hell, half his hand was inside her, she was wet as he'd ever seen her, he could smell her, that smell, oh … _god_ … Veronica in heat. Almost peremptorially, he pulled himself from her hand and thrust at her opening, the cock sliding, trying, bumping, and then … _yes!_ … inside. Oh god, the feel of her, the walls of her beautiful slick vagina gripping, the tremble of her legs, panting, panting, _she's moaning now, god, listen to her.  
_  
He was fucking her now, no holds barred. In and out, push her over the edge, _come on, Logan, fuck her._ Logan rolled and pulled her on top, his hands seeking out those breasts, hardened nipples betraying her lust. She whimpered a little, and he took those hips in his hands, forcing her up and down, gazing into those widened pupils. And she bent down, her elbows on either side of his head, mouths meeting with a clash of teeth and a bruising of tender lips.

She kissed him like it was the end and the beginning. For a moment, disoriented, she wondered where it was they were again, and then decided it didn't matter … all that mattered was the hoisting of her hips up and crashing them down again, his cock penetrating her, throbbing, cleaving her, all instinct and impulse and intuition. A little squeal of frustration escaped her, and she felt his thumb seeking her clit again — how the _hell_ did he know how to do that to her?

They lost themselves to the rhythm of their fucking. There was no cottage, no ceremony, no paparazzi, no … just pelvises seeking and yearning, flesh meeting and parting, a mutual vibration and shuddering. A sudden gasp from Veronica as she tensed and tumbled over the edge, and Logan chased her furiously. A few quick thrusts and there he was with her on the other side.

No thoughts.

Just bodies.

Sweaty, trembling with exertion, not nearly enough oxygen in this room. A splendid scent of love, mutually attained, filled the room. They breathed, gradually catching their breath, remembering where they were, why they were …

Veronica looked at her watch and gasped. "Logan … we've got ten minutes!"

A frantic sorting of clothes, Logan's hand pulling up her zipper, almost against his will, as she fretted nervously. A quick check in the mirror that management had thoughtfully provided, and they were out of there. Logan didn't have the heart to tell her that, to his eye, she looked thorougly fucked, just the way he liked her.

They hurried, double-time, back along the path to the main mansion. Only a few stragglers were still outside. Veronica gave Logan a quick push toward the side door nearest to the front of the wedding ceremony, and she took her place at the back, with a reflexive patting down of loose hair and slightly askew garments, until she caught her dad's eye. He shook his head warningly, and she held her hands tightly at her sides. Her dad smiled knowingly, and she willed herself _not_ to blush. She thought about Backup, and detention with Mr. Clemons, and the Dean's funeral, and anything else she could to distract her.

She had to get through this ceremony. _Focus, Veronica._

"Where the hell were you?" Madame Anoinette hissed, suddenly by her side and apparently completely aggravated. "We almost had to delay — you people are _incroyable_!"

Veronica gave her a sweet smile. "_Va te faire foutre_, Madame Antoinette."

The woman gasped.

But right then it was time for Veronica to march down the aisle. She mused that she'd never played bride when she was a little girl, and she still didn't see the appeal of that game. Everyone was staring at her as she processed toward the front; no one was crying yet, although that really wasn't surprising, Veronica thought. Flashes from cameras popped in front of her eyes, and Veronica resigned herself to a photo in The Star with a caption hinting at her depraved pre-ceremony activities.

"The Prince of Denmark's March" came to a stirring conclusion as she reached the front. Standing with the other groomsmen, looking quite handsome, if a little mussed, Logan smiled brilliantly at her, and suddenly she was very happy she'd agreed to do this for him.

And then, the organist sailed into "Here Comes the Bride", and Trina Echolls made her entrance. Veronica cast a glance at Trina's husband-to-be, a studly reality TV star that Veronica suspected didn't quite know what he was getting into. Trina's surprising rise in popularity, after she'd managed to land a starring role in a reboot of "Police Woman", still took some getting used to.

When Trina handed her bouquet to Veronica and "Here Comes the Bride" ended in a flourish of brass fanfares, she gave Veronica a broad wink.

"Dearly Beloved, we are gathered here today …."


End file.
